Born and raised in Harrington, Washington, Samson was the dog of a lone old man that most definitely enjoyed his privacy. Day after day, year after year, Samson's time had long been spent lain on a dusty old porch, running, fetching, and barking at the occasional passerby. There had in fact only been one time that Samson had to violently guard his keeper, and that had been enough it seemed. All there was for days after had been yelling, breaking, and a most disturbing stretch of quiet. Samson had only lain on the seat as he'd been driven for hours to some green stretch of grass, monolithic rocks almost within reach. Samson was lead out of the car, his keeper removing the metal clasp around his mouth, and told to leave. Samson obeyed, fleeing out of obedience, he didn't know what to do, but those huge rocks and stretches of grass seemed the best place to start.